


Pantomime

by methylviolet10b, MonkeyBard



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Case Fic, Round Robin, Suspense, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonkeyBard/pseuds/MonkeyBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's day starts with a maniacally-grinning Sherlock at 3:10 a.m.. It just goes from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pantomime

**Author's Note:**

> We wrote this fic as a response to Challenge 21 over on Watson's Woes, which is a round-robin challenge. Specifically, the challenge states that 1) either the first or second prompt table must be used, 2) the fic must feature the friendship between the characters, and 3) the fic had to be authored in the round-robin style, where one writer writes a bit, then the next, and so on in turns until the story is complete. Apparently the two of us really like this kind of challenge, because we wrote this fic using the entire first prompt table - which contains 100 prompt words. Um. Yeah. Or, you know, we're both insane. In either case, we wrote it, we're posting it here, and we hope you like it. :-) 
> 
> **Warnings:** Violence. Disturbing imagery. Insanity, and not just on the part of the characters; we're pretty sure both authors are more than a little touched in the head. A fairly complex case-fic and friendship fic, told in 100-word drabble snippets, round-robined between two authors. (See earlier statement about dubious sanity of the authors.)

**Authors** : **methylviolet10b** (odd-numbered rounds) and **monkeybard** (even-numbered rounds)  
 **Rating** : PG-13, for violence, gore, and general unpleasantness  
 **Disclaimer** : We don't own them. Which is probably just as well, really.  
  
  
Pantomime  
  _noun_ 1\. the art or technique of conveying emotions, actions, feelings, etc., by gestures without speech

  
**1\. Murder**

John awoke to a hand on his arm and a pair of glittering eyes less than six inches from his face.  “Come on, John! This is no time for sleep!”

Old reflexes sent John’s eyes towards his watch: 3:10 a.m.. Newer reflexes kept him from punching Sherlock in the face. Pride kept him from groaning aloud. “What is it?”

“Lestrade called. A double murder in the V&A, found by the night-cleaning crew. We have a case!” Sherlock announced this as if it was the best possible news, delivered the words like a gift.

Knowing him, he probably thought it was.

**2\. Nightmare**  
They were out the door in three minutes. John shivered in the damp air. At least the autumn rain had paused since he’d fallen asleep.  
  
London cabs were scare at that hour, but by some miracle one immediately appeared. Sherlock fidgeted as they rode. John reckoned it was his body’s way of keeping his mind from shaking apart until it could get to the mystery it needed to occupy it.  
  
City lights gleamed off of wet pavement as they sped through the streets. It was quiet, almost idyllic…and a stark contrast to the nightmare scene they found upon their arrival.

**3\. Grief**

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

John didn't really think it was a joke. The blood and dismembered pieces aside, he knew Lestrade too well for that. But seriously, how could he _not_ give Greg a little grief over something like this?

Greg understood completely, if the little twitch at the corner of his mouth was any indication. The DI could barely hold back an inappropriate grimacing grin as he shook his head. "Nope. Two dead mimes."

"They've been _dressed_ as mimes," Sherlock snapped, either utterly unaware of the macabre punchline aspect of the crime, or simply not caring.

**4\. Late Nights**  
  
John, however, could already hear the comedians. When this news broke, the hosts of the telly late-nights would be all over it for their opening monologues.  
  
“What?” Anderson demanded scornfully. “What sort of sick bastard paints dead people’s faces to look like mimes?”  
  
Lestrade shot him a shut-the-hell-up glance. Sherlock ignored him, as usual, and turned his gaze on John. “Come here. Tell me what you observe.”  
  
John knelt beside the first corpse, avoiding the pooled blood that hadn’t quite dried. Skipping the obvious--male, mid-thirties, slit throat--he looked closer. He didn’t see anything unusual, but he smelled:  
  
“Honeysuckle?”

**5.  Breathe**

“Very good, John.” Sherlock’s eyes half-slitted closed, and John could see him breathe in, practically tasting the air. “It’s an after-lotion, very high end, sold only in conjunction with a particular top-of-the-line depilatory cream.” Sherlock pointed at the face of one of the two victims, almost but not quite touching the grease-painted skin. “See? The killer used the cream to remove every trace of facial hair, then the lotion to condition the skin, then applied the white paint. Only then did he cut in the traditional mime markings around the eyes and mouth. They were still alive then.”

“How long?”

**6\. Shoot**

"Not long."

"Security says the cameras have been glitching throughout the building. This room went out for eight minutes starting at one-forty-three a.m.," Lestrade offered.

John rose, wincing at phantom pain, and looked about. Donovan was directing the numbering and photographing of evidence. It was a big job. He'd not seen so many severed body parts since Afghanistan.

It was then it struck him. "There are more limbs than two bodies can provide."

Lestrade could see Anderson was about to shoot his mouth off again, and stopped him with another hard stare. He reached for his phone. They needed backup.

**7\. Fire**  
"Eight minutes isn't long enough for whoever this was to carve up people like this and…decorate." John tripped on the last word. "This isn't something quick, like bomb damage."  
  
"Quite right. Chainsaw. And there isn't enough blood, obvious, why don't you fire Anderson, Lestrade? From the two heads, both were alive for their mutilations, but he was cut up with a precision instrument at least 24 hours ago. She's the source of most of the blood; she died here, but didn't struggle. Drugged, most likely."  
  
John hoped she'd been too drugged to feel what happened to her. "And the third?"

**8\. Missing**  
“The rest of him is here somewhere.”

“You’re sure it’s a him, then?” asked Lestrade.  
  
Sherlock’s look said it all, but he expounded anyway. “One glance at the feet would tell you that. _Think_ , Lestrade.”  
  
He was right, of course. There were five shod feet scattered around the room, and only two were small enough to be the woman’s.  
  
Lestrade bit back his sharp answer, saying instead, “There’s a foot missing.”  
  
“That’s better.” Sherlock stood and scanned the room, taking in everything in that snapshot way John envied. “They were brought in through there.” He dashed for the far doorway.

**9\. Darkness**

John ran after Sherlock as quickly as he could. After the floodlit confines of the murder room, the relative darkness of the hall left John half-blind. He nearly ran into Sherlock, who had stopped in the middle of the hall.

"Sorry," he apologized, even as his eyes took in the gore-spattered jumpsuit and paper booties abandoned on the floor. "Explains how he got out without leaving a mess, or a trail."

Sherlock didn't answer. His eyes remained fixed upwards. John followed his gaze, then wished he hadn't.

Three severed human tongues dangled on a line strung across the service hallway.

**10\. Light**

“Not exactly a light touch, this killer,” muttered John.

Lestrade’s footsteps pounded up behind and stopped abruptly. “Oh my God.” He shouted over one shoulder, “Donovan! Have security get some lights on in here!” He turned back in time to catch Sherlock in mid-step. “Do. Not. Touch. Anything.”

Even in the layers of shadow, Lestrade saw Sherlock’s pale eyes roll, but he heeded the DI for once and stayed put.

Sherlock scanned the scene as best he could. Besides the suspended tongues and the discarded jumpsuit, he could make out part of a torso that might still have its head.

**11\. Choke**

"You have _got_ to be kidd –" It was all John could do to choke back the rest of the sentence. He'd already said it once tonight. "A reporter?"

"Mark MacKenzie. He was reported missing last week. We have his fingerprints on file thanks to some escapades in the name of the 'free press.'" Even Lestrade's professionalism couldn't keep the dislike out of his voice.  "He wasn't much of a real reporter, more of a bottom-feeder. Even the News of the World wouldn't have him on staff."

Sherlock paced Lestrade's tiny office. "Any other missing media types on your list?"

**12\. Helpless**

"Just one. Jessica Perez."

"Do you think she's--?" asked John.

"We won't know until the morgue gets the bodies," Lestrade answered with a helpless shrug. Only MacKenzie's prints had popped up in the police database. They'd left Donovan in charge of the bag-and-tag crew at the V&A. By now, they'd be finishing up and sending the bits and bobs over to St. Bart's to sort out and identify.

John's thoughts were on a similar path. "They'll be a while at that."

Lestrade nodded at the dry gallows humour.

"No need," snapped Sherlock. "It's her."

Lestrade eyeballed him. "Enlighten me."

**13\. Negotiate**

"Use your eyes! Her photograph shows a distinctive mole on her left earlobe, and piercings in both ears and her right nostril. The mutilated female head had all of those characteristics. It's her."

"Likely, yes."

"When was she reported missing?"

It took a minute for Lestrade to negotiate through the missing persons database. "Yesterday, but the boyfriend said he hadn't seen her since the 24th. MacKenzie went missing on the 18th."

"And today's the 27th." Sherlock scowled. "Either our third victim was picked up today, or no one's noticed he went missing on the 21st."

"He's working in threes?"

"Obvious!"

**14\. Blind**

“I hope the unidentified victim went missing on the twenty-first.” Sherlock and Lestrade both looked at John. He met their gazes, one pale and intent, the other dark and tense, both awaiting further explanation. “Otherwise, we’re missing one. Eighteenth, twenty-first, twenty-fourth, twenty-seventh. If our third victim only went missing today--”

“Let’s assume,” Lestrade said, “that these three are the only three.”

“So far.”

It was a blind-side and it oughtn’t to have been. Lestrade felt briefly old and tired. “Hell. Sherlock’s right. That means we’ve got three days until he kidnaps another one.”

“And twelve until he kills again.”

**15\. Haunt**

"So we've a possible serial killer picking off journalists on a three-day deadline. Or a twelve-day one, depending on how you look at it." John tried not to let the memory of another serial killer haunt him, even as he used the memory of that experience to prompt his next question. "How did he pick them up?"

"Pick them up, pick them out – it's too early to say without guessing, John, and you know I never guess." Sherlock looked over at Lestrade. "I'll want copies of their files, and keep me updated. Text me when the autopsy reports come in."

  
**16\. Embrace**  
“Where are you going, then?” Lestrade demanded.  
  
“Home, I hope,” muttered John, yawning. The sun was rising. God, was it really as late as that?  
  
Sherlock made one of his extended groans of irritation? Disgust? Disappointment? John was too tired to catch the precise nuance.  
  
“It a new day, John, and we’ve a new case! Can’t you just embrace the adrenaline rush?”  
  
“I’d rather embrace my pillow.” At his friend’s accusing and, yes definitely disappointed, glare, John changed tactics. “At least let’s go somewhere for a quick breakfast. I’ll eat fast.”  
  
“Fine," begrudged Sherlock. "Lestrade--?”  
  
“I’ll text you. Go.”

**17\. Silent**

Sherlock pulled out his mobile as soon as they left Lestrade’s office. His thumbs flew over the mobile’s keypad, texting at a rate that John had trouble believing no matter how many times he saw it happen. He knew better than to ask what Sherlock was researching. He just hoped he wasn’t so preoccupied that he ‘forgot’ he’d agreed to let John eat breakfast before they went haring off only-Sherlock-knew-where.

Either he hadn’t, or his researches proved fruitful. Sherlock remained largely silent while John wolfed down a full fry-up.

“Right.” John set down his teacup. “Where are we off to?”

**18\. Work**  
  
“Chiswick.”  
  
“Chiswick.” It was an echo and a question in one word.  
  
“I believe I spoke clearly, John.”  
  
John bit back a retort. Getting snippy over Sherlock’s snippiness would get him nowhere. He’d made quick work of breakfast, as promised. He was well fed and marginally restored from his rude awakening at ass o’clock. He could handle this. “Why Chiswick?”  
  
“Mark MacKenzie.”  
  
“The bottom-feeder, yes. What about him?”  
  
“He was 'investigating' a paper company in Chiswick before he disappeared.”  
  
“And you think there might be a connection?”  
  
“Jessica Perez lived in Chiswick with her boyfriend.”  
  
“Chiswick it is. Check, please!”

**19\. Rescue**  
Unfortunately, Chiswick proved mostly to be dead ends, at least initially. John's precautionary text to Lestrade confirmed that neither Mark nor Jessica's family had been notified yet by the police, which put the kibosh on talking to them – and threatened to send Sherlock into an epic pout. Hoping to rescue the situation, John suggested that he talk to his homeless network members in Chiswick, instead. It wasn't a perfect solution, but that and basic groundwork kept them on the go until midmorning, when Sherlock's phone beeped.  
  
"Ah." His face brightened. "The preliminary autopsy reports are ready. Back to the Yard!"

**20\. Die**  
  
“So, how did they die?”  
  
“Poison.”  
  
John stood a little straighter in Lestrade’s shoebox-with-windows office. “Seriously?”  
  
Lestrade tossed the file across the desk. John reached for it, but Sherlock was faster. It took Sherlock about as long to skim the pages and take in the crucial data as it took John to roll his eyes and exchange an irritated look with Lestrade.  
  
“Not just any poison,” said the world’s only consulting detective. He shoved the documents into John’s hands.  
  
“What on Earth made Anderson look for that? You underestimated him for once,” John teased.  
  
“It was undoubtedly someone else’s idea.”

**21\. Memory**

“Sally’s, actually,” Lestrade confirmed. “She knew no one would just lie there and… well. But anesthetizing victims isn’t standard serial killer M.O., not with this gore quotient. She had a vague memory of an old-time poison, looked it up, and asked for the bodies to be specifically tested for it.”

“Curare wasn’t always used as a poison. It was used as a medicine at end of the 19th century, and into the 20th.” John made a face. “But I can tell you one thing.”

“Yes?”

“If I remember right, these poor sods knew and felt everything that happened to them.” 

**22\. War**

Rarely had a hot shower felt that good.

Sally Donovan emerged physically cleansed, but still mentally weary.  She'd worked plenty of homicides in her career. This one, though, had struck her hardest of them all. That woman. Jessica Perez. God. She was the same age as Sally's little sister. She couldn't help it. She kept imagining Beth in that war zone of a museum room, instead.

It crossed her mind that John Watson could tell her it was nothing like a real war zone.

But no. The Freak would contradict her gut response, correct her emotions. John wasn't so cold.

**23\. Faint**

Her stomach rumbled, reminding Sally that she hadn’t eaten since yesterday. As she scoured her kitchen for something edible, she found herself hoping that John would be able to bully Sherlock into eating while on this case.  The Freak had a bad habit of going without, claiming it took blood away from his brain. She’d seen him literally faint from hunger on a few long cases, and having him unconscious was even more annoying than having him deducing everything in sight.

And as much as she hated to think it, she knew they’d need the Freak on this one.

**24\. Trapped**

Her mobile rang the moment she'd filled her mouth with a half-stale jammy dodger. She didn't even want the thing, but she was in danger of gnawing off a limb and it was handy to nosh on while she dug into the fridge for the store-bought pasta salad that was trapped behind the soya milk.

Perfect. Hating herself for her bachelorish ways, she chased the bite with milk straight from the carton and grabbed the phone off the counter.

She choked down the sticky-sweet sludge. Didn't do to answer your boss with a full mouth, even over the phone. "Donovan."

**25\. Stab**

“Sally.” Lestrade sounded stressed.  “I know you’ve probably just got home, but the higher-ups are insisting that we go public with a preliminary statement before noon. I’d like you to come back in so we can take a stab at it.”

Satisfaction slaked her physical hunger. She’d worked hard to get where she was, and Lestrade’s open appreciation of her abilities – including relying on her help when dealing with the press – made up for a lot of lost sleep. “Of course.”

“And we’ll want to keep our eyes open when we hold the conference. We’ll be looking at potential victims.”

**26.  Blood**

Donovan did a quick check of her shoes before heading into the building. She'd changed into clean clothes but hadn't thought about her shoes until that moment. Fortunately, any blood that might have gotten on them at the crime scene had been washed off by the rain. For once, she was thankful for London's soggy climate.

She found Lestrade in his office, phone in one hand, the other tapping like a bird at the computer keyboard. He nodded at her to come in. "Right. Thanks. Good work." He hung up. "They've identified the third victim."

"Another reporter?"

"I'm afraid so."

**27\. Fight**

“Ravi Chakravarty, 35, a fashion blogger and critic, of all things. He had a fight with his boyfriend and stormed out on the 21st. No one had seen him since.” Lestrade shook his head. “So we have a muckraker, a critic, and a prize-winning investigative reporter, whose only known connection is that they all worked in some kind of media, and that they were all found messily dead in the special exhibits room at the V&A.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock drawled from the doorway, startling Sally. “There are two other connections.”

“Oh?”

“The special exhibit was on _presses_ , Lestrade.”

“And the other?”

**28.  Effort**

"Chiswick."

"Chiswick." Lestrade unknowingly echoed John's tone from earlier.

"The paper company," said John, setting a brown paper bag on the corner Lestrade's desk.

"Exactly!"

"But what about Chakravarty? What's he got to do with Chiswick?"

"What the hell are either of you talking about?" demanded Lestrade.

Sherlock rounded on him.  "If your lackeys had made any sort of effort at proper research—"

Donovan stiffened defensively, but the jibe was, surprisingly, not directed at her.

"—you'd know about MacKenzie's investigation there, Perez's home there, and the Second-hand Runway Show hosted at the Chiswick Charity Hall reviewed by…?"

"Chakravarty."

**29\. Exhaustion**

They’d have gotten there eventually, Sally thought with exhaustion, but this was why Lestrade called Sherlock. The kind way to regard it was that the Freak was that much better at putting pieces together than anyone else. The more realistic way, perhaps, was that he was just that good at putting himself in a psychopath’s shoes.

Sherlock swanned off, John in tow, with vague promises of coming back to observe the conference. Sally remembered the bag only after they’d left.  Lestrade opened it, the paper crinkling. An instant later he smiled and showed Sally the two wrapped sandwiches.

“Ah, John.”

**30\. Limp**

Lestrade held out both sandwiches, giving Sally the choice. She took the tomato and cheese with a nod of thanks. She peeled off the wrapping, dropping the limp plastic into the bin.  "You want a coffee?" Normally, she'd never offer to fetch coffee for her boss. She knew too well how easy it was to go from respected colleague to disregarded underling simply from being thoughtful.

"Can you have it injected directly into my veins?" quipped Lestrade.

"I think the sight of a DI shooting up might be too irresistible for the press, don't you?"

He chuckled. "Probably."

"So… Chiswick?"

**31\. Struggle**

“What about it, Sally?”

“I’m wondering if we can find out what reporters are working the Chiswick beat, or living in the area, or have any kind of connection there.”

“We could cross-reference residency records with known newspaper journalists.” Lestrade rubbed his overly-stubbled chin. “But bloggers? Tough. And getting information from journalists on stories they’re working on is a struggle at best.” He shrugged. “It’s probably too broad a net for starters, but it can’t hurt to run a quick background check on those in our usual press pools, and keep an extra-sharp eye on anyone who comes up trumps.”

**32\. Stranded**

"I'll get Gareth on it right now." She turned with half a sandwich still in her hand.

"Stop. Sit."

She paused, stranded mid-step, and gave him a puzzled look. "Don't you want it asap? Or even before the press conference, if possible?"

"What I want," he said directing her to the one chair in the office that wasn't his own, "is for you to finish your food before you do anything. We're both knackered and starving. Am I right?"

She couldn't deny it.

"All right, then. I want you at your best and ready to go when I need you."

**33\. Promise**

Sally felt a smile tug her lips upwards. “Oh, I will be. I promise you that.”

Lestrade grinned in return. “I’m sure, but I still want you to finish that sandwich.”

They both ate hastily, with the gulping bites of the seasoned Yarder who knows that the next interruption is inevitably just around the corner.  Sally knew she’d pay for it later, but that was one of the many reasons why she kept a bottle of antacids in her desk.

One of these days, this might catch up with them both. But for now, they had a killer to catch.

**34.  Fear**

John hurried to match Sherlock's longer stride as they left the Yard. "Where are we going?"

Rather than answering, Sherlock tapped away at his mobile's screen, using nothing but his peripheral vision to keep himself from running into other pedestrians. In any other person, such foolhardiness would make John fear for their life. Because it was Sherlock, he had no worry of his flatmate stepping out into traffic and being run down by a London cabbie.

"Where are--?"

"Not Chiswick."

"Small favours. What about the press conference?"

"We'll be back in time. I want to speak to someone first."

**35.  Swim**

“Who?”

“Langdale Pike.”

John tried again. “Who?”

Sherlock gave him a half-smile.  “We’re taking a swim in what you might call the world of gossip, innuendo, and scandal. Langdale calls himself a society reporter, but he’s really the transmitter for all the gossip in London, including any tidbits about the reporters themselves.  If there’s any news to be had about our three victims – or anything to know about personalities in Chiswick – he’ll know it.  He’s usually close-mouthed, but he’ll talk to me.”

“Oh.” John briefly wondered why, but didn’t ask. “We’d better warn him.”

“Yes, that had occurred to me.”

**36\. Danger**

It didn't take long to reach Pike's office. It was smaller even than Lestrade's and yet managed to contain the man himself, not one but three computers, and countless bits of journalistic detritus that meant nothing to John.

"Sherlock, my dear!" Langdale Pike rose languidly to his feet to greet them. "And Doctor John Watson. _Such_ a pleaure to finally meet the man who managed to tame Sherlock Holmes." He put out a hand.

"I didn't—"

Sherlock cut to the point. "Langadale, you're in danger."

"My dear, I _know_."

"What can you tell us about about the dead reporters?"

**37\. Cemetery**

“I could tell you a great deal, but how much of it would be of use is questionable. I highly doubt you want details of poor Jessica’s love life, or Mark’s peccadillos.”

“Wait a minute.” John scowled suspiciously at the pale, strange man behind the desk. “How did you know we wanted information about those two people? Their own _families_ don’t know yet, or didn’t as of a few hours ago.”

Langdale’s eyebrows rose. “I was aware of their disappearances, naturally. And when Sherlock says “dead reporters,” it’s not exactly a leap from flower to cemetery, as the song goes.”

**38\. Honour**

Sherlock ignored John's accusing look. It wasn't as if he'd given up any secrets that wouldn't be public knowledge soon enough. And Langdale knew how to manage information better than almost anyone.

"What about Chiswick?"

"My dear, I try to know as little as humanly possible about Chiswick." Langdale said the name with a certain obvious distaste. "However, that so-called fashion show Ravi reviewed? One of the sponsors was a local paper company, of all things."

" _New_ information, Langdale," prompted Sherlock, although this was news to John.

"Dear sweet tenacious Jessica, was _in_ the show, my dear! Word of honour."

**39\. Love**

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened. “Not as herself.”

“Of course not, love. She could hardly investigate the company while temping and modeling as _herself_ , now could she?”

“But investigating what? And where does MacKenzie come into it?”

Langdale looked thoughtful. “This is pure speculation on my part, but paper and textile are both fibre arts. The show was all about using alternate fibres – including industrial hemp for paper and clothing. Or allegedly industrial-grade hemp.” Langdale sniffed. “Given that Mark was a pothead, if there was something fishy about the marijuana supply on the streets…”

“Wait. The serial killer angle is a cover-up?”

**40\. Cold**

"Bit extreme even for a drug ring, Johnny dear."

"No." Sherlock frowned. He was missing something and that always irritated him. "But that's not it. Jessica was working undercover. The killer must have known who she really was."

"What about MacKenzie?" asked John. "Did he know her? Could he have blown her cover to, I don't know, maybe convince someone on the inside that he could be trusted?"

Langdale shook his head. "Mark was as cheap as they come, darling, but even he wasn't as cold and calculating as all that."

"He might not have realised the full danger."

"Obvious!"

**41\. Time**

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “It all comes back to the fashion show. We know Ravi and Jessica were there. Mark – ” He glanced over at Langdale, who shrugged. “ – might have been there too, might not, might have been investigating the paper company, might not. And while Ravi was at the show, he wasn’t an investigative reporter, but a fashion blogger; was he taken to disguise the true targets, or was he in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“We’ll need to sort that later,” John said. “Right now we must go, or we’ll be late to the press conference.”

**42\. Suffer**

Lestrade never enjoyed dealing with the press. He accepted it as part of his job, a necessary distraction from proper police work. That didn't mean he liked it. At least he had Donovan backing him up, and today he had three additional officers on hand, keeping a subtle eye on everyone. Chances were fair that the killer's next target was in this room, and he wanted as many eyes on the scene as possible. No one deserved to suffer as the first victims had, and he was damned if he was going to let anyone else go that same way.

**43\. Beat**

Most of the faces in the press room were familiar, reporters who regularly worked the police beat. Obviously someone had let something slip, however, because a few of them were bigger names who only ever turned up when a big story was in the offing. And the rest of the room was nearly filled with reporters Lestrade didn’t recognize offhand.

Lestrade was just about to start when he saw Sherlock and John slip in through the back door. John took one of the few remaining seats, while Sherlock leaned nonchalantly against the wall, his quicksilver eyes taking in every face.

**44\. Cripple**

This was when the circus began and Lestrade was the tightrope walker. His was the unenviable task of handing the press enough information to satisfy them without giving away so much that it would cripple the investigation. Donovan was his balancing pole, helping find centre again when a particularly persistent or overly clever reporter threatened to send him too far to the wrong side of that fine line.

Shame he didn't have a net.

He pointed to a familiar woman in the second row. "Yes, Amanda?"

"What steps are the police taking to protect the public from this brutal killer?"

**45\. Evil**

It was times like these that Lestrade had to remind himself firmly reporters weren’t evil, weren’t agents of the Devil sent to drive him distracted. It was a hard sell, but he made himself believe it, and even smile charmingly at Amanda as he answered. “I can’t give you details, but we have several promising leads, and we are devoting all possible attention to this case.” It was essentially a non-answer, but Amanda didn’t follow up. _She probably would have if we’d released the victims’ names. The whole press pool will go into a frenzy as soon as we do_.

**46\. Battle**

It can't have missed their collective notice that Sherlock was lurking in, well, not the shadows. More like the wings. After all, this was playing out like some stage fiction, between the mimes, the museum, and the random Whovianesque connection to a paper company in Chiswick.

Oh yes. He watched the show. He half-wished for a Time Lord to sort this mess out and battle the baddies, if only so he could catch a couple hours of shut-eye.

 _Fantasies, Greg,_ he chided himself as he ended the press conference and made a swift exit with Donovan running interference behind him.

**47\. Chivalry**

By the time the press conference ended, Sherlock had identified two reporters who bore watching, and possibly warning: a crime-beat journalist for the Guardian whose invalid aunt lived in Chiswick; and an entertainment-and-arts specialist who lived in the borough. Naturally, Sherlock decided they should split up without consulting John. Resigned, John followed the arts reporter, joining the scrum leaving the building and holding the door for several out of an ingrained sense of chivalry.

“Where are you headed?” John asked the man.

“SoHo.”

“I’m headed that way myself. Share a cab?”

“Sure.” The man blinked. “Say, aren’t you John Watson?”

**48.  Drag**

John gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Guilty as charged." He hailed a cab and one pulled up right away. He let his companion get in first and followed him.

The man gave the cabbie an address, and John nodded. "Close enough."

"I don't suppose there's a chance of an exclusive?" the fellow asked.

"Afraid not, no."

"Never hurts to ask."

"No. Quite. I, uh, didn't catch what paper you're with."

"Freelance. Bit of a drag, really. Print, online, whatever sells. Reviews, mostly. Books, films, theatre."

"Odd you'd be at a police press conference."

"Well, it's its own sort of drama, innit?"

**49\. Fall**

“Besides, it’s closed the V&A for a day, y’know? Which is news, no two ways about it. God knows how many tour buses and groups they’ve had to turn away.  It’s got to be costing them a pretty penny.”

“I suppose it must,” John agreed.

“Yeah, and that’s not even counting the dent something like this might make in future donations. I mean, the corporations and wealthy toffs aren’t going to fall all over themselves giving big gifts and naming grants to an institution that can’t mind its own security well enough to keep out a killer, now are they?”

**50\. Hide**

"No, quite." John hadn't thought about that. It was a curious point and he wondered if it had crossed Sherlock's mind enough to stick and hide in a corner somewhere, or if he'd considered it, found it wanting, and discarded it.

The fellow pulled out his mobile and texted a message. "Sorry. Rude, right?" He pocketed the device. "The wife likes updates on my doings. I don't mind. Means she cares, doesn't it."

"I suppose so." John was almost relieved. If this fellow checked in with his wife that often, he'd be certain to be missed quickly if he disappeared.

**51\. Loss**

“So about this potential loss to the V&A. Could you tell me more about that, um…” John gave the other man a sheepish look. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Charles. Charles Farnsworth.” The arts reporter offered his hand, and John was surprised by the firm handshake. The reporter didn’t look like he had that kind of strength. “Why, do you think it might be important?”

“Well, I’m not the detective, but it might be,” John admitted. “And you seem like you know something about the subject.”

“Ought to, after thirty years. Sure, come on up to my place.”

 

**52\. Shiver**

The afternoon had grown overcast and gloomy, threatening more rain. John fought a shiver as he climbed from the cab.

"Top floor," Farnsworth said. "Hope you don't mind a climb."

"It's fine."

"There's a lift but more than half the time it don't work, so most folks just don't bother."

"So, you're a fan of the V&A?" John hazarded. Thirty years was a long time to research anything if you weren't fascinated by the subject.

"Something like that. Here we are." He opened the door, and the last thing John felt was a crushing grip and needle in his wrist.

 

 

**53\. Support**

Of course the Superintendent wanted a private debrief after the press conference, not only to go over how the conference went, but also to review the details and progress on the case so far. He had some pithy things to say about Lestrade’s decision to bring Holmes in on the case from the get-go. The Superintendent was not a fan, but as long as Lestrade kept getting results, he didn’t complain too much. And Sally surprised them both by voicing her support of Lestrade’s decision.

“Thanks,” Lestrade muttered as they left the room.

“Let’s just hope the Freak gets results.”

 

**54.  Lift**

Lestrade made no comment beyond the lift of an eyebrow that challenged her choice of words. Sally didn't apologise, but neither did she continue.

"Detective Inspector?" The new voice was that of Gareth. Sally had set him the task of background checking Chiswick reporters per Lestrade's instructions. Lestrade's senses were immediately on the alert; if he'd found something this quickly, it couldn't be good.

"Gareth. Talk to me."

"I think I've got something. Charles Farnsworth. Arts and entertainment freelancer, lives in Chiswick, _and_ he used to work at the V &A."

"Used to?"

"Dismissed under some dodgy circumstances. See for yourself."

 

**55\. Weak**

“Huh.” Lestrade scanned Gareth’s notes. His eyes widened as he saw that Farnsworth used to be an assistant curator for visiting exhibits. A weak accusation of ‘inappropriate distribution of information to the press’ had cost him his job before being subsequently disproven, but Farnsworth had not been rehired.

“Good work, Gareth. This is very detailed. How’d you get this information so quickly?”

Gareth blushed. “My girlfriend works at the V&A, and put in a word with the head curator.”

Lestrade grinned. “A good investigator always makes use of his contacts.”

And speaking of… Lestrade opened his phone to text Sherlock.

 

**56\. Grasp**

_Check CF for medical background. SH_

Lestrade glared at the return text. There was no point demanding elucidation. "SH" would only skewer him for failing to grasp the so-called obvious right off the mark. Then, of course, he did grasp it and was glad he'd not texted back. "Gareth, I need you to do some more digging. We need to know if Farnsworth has a medical background or connections with someone who might be able to get their hands on curare."

"Curare?" Gareth wasn't privy to the autopsy reports, but Sally understood where he going.

"I'll give him a hand."

**57\. Terror**

“Nothing.”

Lestrade blinked. Sherlock was almost never wrong with his suggestions. “Really?”

“Not that we can find.” Sally, too, looked disconcerted. “There’s nothing in his background that suggests medical or chemical expertise. Which doesn’t mean he couldn’t have known about it anyway, but no proof.”

 Sighing, Lestrade texted the news to Sherlock, anticipating a variation on “you’re all idiots” response. He could be a terror when one of his theories didn’t play out.

His actual reply was entirely unexpected. Lestrade felt a frisson of fear as he read the words.

_John not answering mobile. Imperative to locate CF immediately. SH_

**58\. Mercy**

"Have we got a photograph of Farnsworth?"

"Here." Sally handed over a print-out of a low-res photo. "Not great, but it's current."

Lestrade frowned. He recognised the fellow from the press conference, the brazen bastard. "So much for our three-day window," he snarled. Then it hit him. It was still the twenty-seventh. "Christ! Send this out to all units. And get me a list of known contacts and addresses for Farnsworth." There'd be no mercy for John at that psychopath's hands.

"But why take John?"

Lestrade froze. How had none of them thought of it? "Oh God. He's Sherlock's blogger."

**59\. Crawl**

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ Sherlock raged at himself. Unforgivably stupid, _Yard_ stupid, to have not seen it until now, when any _idiot_ should have realized that it was still the twenty-seventh, the _start_ of a new cycle with the conclusion of the old! Culpably stupid, to think that they’d had _time_ , and thrice-damnably unforgivable to send _John_ , a _blogger_ , alone after one of the suspects!

He could feel failure, fear, and fury crawl over his skin like ants. His entire body shook despite all his attempts at control. There was no _time_ for this, and he forced his fingers to dial.

**60\. Plead**

"Awake, are you? Good."

Groggy as he was, John recognized Farnsworth's voice. He turned his head. Or, he tried to. The face he sought appeared directly above him, blocking the dull but preferable view of the water-stained plaster ceiling.

"I was afraid Leo over-did the knockout. Wouldn't want you to miss out on the full experience." He vanished and John made a futile attempt to move. He knew what it must be, of course. Curare.

"I like a quiet subject when I work, see. Although—" Farnsworth reappeared. "You'd never sob and plead, would you? Not a soldier like you."

**61\. Crack**

“I have to admit I could hardly believe my luck. I’d hoped to find someone at the conference, but I never expected it to be _you_. And honestly, from your writing on your blog and your reputation, I’d anticipated a lot more trouble. Leo was ready with all kinds of counter-measures, but you succumbed like a lamb.”

Farnsworth couldn’t be any more scornful of John’s performance than John himself was. He’d fallen for it, and now he was in deep. If he only had a second crack at this…

Farnsworth vanished, and a second later, John smelled something familiar.

_Honeysuckle._

**62\. Drug**

Damn. That was step two. He remembered well from the bodies at the museum. First depilation, then the high-priced, honeysuckle-scented moisturizer, then the white make-up, and then— He stopped the thought train. It wouldn't come to that. Sherlock and Lestrade wouldn't let it come to that. He could feel his silenced mobile vibrate beneath his hip. His captors hadn't noticed and taken it! It must be Sherlock, aware by now that something was very wrong.

If not for the drug paralysing him, he could have kicked this sick-o's ass, and his unseen cohort's, too, whatever "counter-measures" this Leo had planned.

**63\. Flutter**

Another smell reached John’s nostrils, much sharper, almost like matches. He felt a flutter of panic at the thought of fire, of being burned –

A cool touch against his right cheek. The smell grew worse, but this was cold and sticky spreading over his face, not hot. _Depilatory cream_ , he realized, remembering the smell from a former girlfriend. Apparently they were on step one.

“This’ll burn a bit, probably, but I really must have a smooth canvas to work with. And I’ll need more space this time.”

John felt the hands leave his face and start tugging on his shirt.

**64\. Suspicious**

This wasn't the way John enjoyed being undressed by someone else.

"Well, I see this won’t take long," said Farnsworth once John's shirt was open.

If he could've, John would've rolled his eyes.

Hang on. He could roll his eyes.

While Farnsworth smeared cream over his bare chest, John tried wiggling his toes inside his boots. Success! He next tried twitching his fingertips. Again, success. He mustn't get excited, mustn't give Farnsworth, or Leo, cause to be suspicious. Patience was key. If they thought they'd underdosed him, his chance was shot. It was imperative he keep perfectly still. For now.

**65\. Clench**

John wasn’t sure what was worse; listening to Farnsworth drone on in that perfectly reasonable, sane-sounding voice; or struggling to remain absolutely still while the other man gently scraped away every bit of hair on John’s face and chest. It was unexpectedly ticklish, and John didn’t even dare clench his jaw against the sensation, lest his would-be killer noticed.

Without warning, Farnsworth smashed John’s hand _hard_ against the table he lay upon. Somehow John kept himself from reacting.

“Oh good, you’re still under. Didn’t want to lose another to asphyxiation, but we can’t have you moving, either. Spoils the lines.”

**66\. Relief**

It was a relief when Farnsworth switched to the honeysuckle lotion. In fact, were it not for the present circumstances and the gruesome memory of his first encounter with it, John would have called the stuff quite nice. In other words, even if he could afford it, hell would freeze over before he touched that lotion again.

His hand ached. His mobile vibrated again. But like everything else he felt, he forced himself to ignore them. He focused instead on listening for Leo, gauging Farnsworth's progress, and hoping against hope that help would bust down the door very, very soon.

**67\. Twist**

“There. Smooth and white. A perfect canvas. The blood will show up beautifully.” Farnsworth loomed into John’s field of vision. “I imagine you know about the beauty of blood, don’t you, Doctor? I doubt you’ve ever seen anything like this, however. I think I’ll leave your eyes alone until the very end, so you can witness it. My gift to you.” He grinned, then gave one of John’s nipples a savage twist.

Involuntary tears sprang to his eyes, but John remained motionless. He still couldn’t move worth a damn. Unless he got a lucky break soon...

Farnsworth raised a knife.

**68\. Sink**

The knife appeared astonishingly clean and exceptionally sharp. As he watched its descent, John tried to appreciate the psychopath's attention to hygiene and care for his tools.

It didn't help.

It was an impossible catch-22. If John tried to fight back before he had proper control of his body, he was doomed. Yet if he just laid there and let this horror show happen to him, he was doomed. Either way, it would be painful and ugly.

He felt the tip penetrate his skin. Felt the blade sink in. Saw blood well up around it.

Farnsworth made his first slice.

**69\. Failure**

Reflexes took the decision of _when_ to fight back out of John's control. His entire body jerked at the searing pain as Farnsworth ran his blade from the center of John's sternum down to his belly-button. The madman jumped back, and John attempted to lunge for the knife.

He only managed to fall off the table, failure and pain blazing through him. He landed on his bad shoulder.

"Naughty! You need another shot." Farnsworth ignored John's twitching, sprawled form and reached for another item on a nearby tray.

A door crashed open, and John heard a well-known voice shout "Stop!"

**70\. Bitter**

Lestrade!

John’s mouth tasted bitter with bile, yet relief flooded his drugged body. He could see nothing but feet scuffling on the hard-wood floor. It was chaos from that angle. His abused sense of self-preservation urged him to shift, get out of the line of fire, at least cover his head to protect it from a misplaced kick or incautious tread. He wished he could.

Suddenly, familiar hands were on him, lifting him, turning him, pressing a cloth against his bloody torso. It stung, but John didn’t complain. Sherlock pulled him close, shielding him from the commotion until it subsided.

**71\. Stop**

John felt the thud of a falling body shake the floor. A keening wail, abruptly cut off. Someone – _Donovan_ – snarled a curse. "Scene's secured. Get the paramedics up here, stat! We've got a man down!"

 _Who_? John wondered muzzily.

"Christ!" _Lestrade_. "Can't you stop the bleeding?"

"Not with a scarf," Sherlock bit out. "Where are those medics?"

 _Oh. I'm the man down_. John's vision blurred. _Shock. I'm going into shock._

"Coming up the stairs now. John, if you can hear me, relax. We got him. You're safe."

Him. Not _them_. John tried to speak, but couldn't make his mouth move.

**72\. Crisis**

"John? John!"

John blinked and managed to focus his eyes on the speaker. Sherlock. Right.

Them. Not him. _Them_. Needed to say they'd missed one.

A new face swam into sight beside Sherlock's. Woman. Medic. Crisis team. Right.

Missed one. Which one?

Sherlock arguing, scared, not giving way.

There'd been two. Two.

_Two!_

"John?" Sherlock's eyes were huge, centimetres from John's. His hands framed John's face even while the medic tried to do her job, staunch the blood, treat the wound. "What was that?"

"Probably involuntary," the woman explained.

"No! He _said something_. John? What are you trying to say?"

**73\. Shame**

It was no good. John couldn’t make a sound. Then again, if he could, he might scream, and that would be a shame. The increased pressure against the wound down his chest hurt worse than the initial cut.

Sherlock continued to pat John’s face, clearly desperate for any sign, any word. John couldn’t talk… but he could _blink_. With immense effort, John squeezed his eyes shut, held it for a second, then opened them, then repeated the process.

_Two, Sherlock._

Puzzlement, then startled comprehension. “There were two of them?”

_Yes!_

The medic spoke up. “We need to move him _now_.”

**74\. Pain**

John's eyes squeezed shut at the pain of being lifted from floor to gurney.

 "Careful!" Sherlock barked at the medics, and on the same breath shouted, "Lestrade, there's another one!"

 Lestrade's order to his team was immediate. "Secure the building and start a search."

"No. He's still here in this flat. Donovan missed something. Look for a false panel or somewhere else obvious that a man could hide."

Sherlock met John's gaze one more time with a reassuring nod. "You're safe. I'll be right behind you." With that, he let the medics get his friend out of that nightmarish place.

**75\. Emotion**

He’d been so sure John had been attempting to communicate, that the blinks had been deliberate. Ten minutes into the search, Sherlock was forced to re-evaluate his theory. There was no hidden room, no place for a second man to hide. Had emotion led him to error?

Half an hour after John had been carried away, Sherlock knew he’d been right. There _had_ been a second man involved – but not in the killing, not directly. He snarled, feeling murderous rage welling up. What kind of monster turned a psychopath loose on others as a deliberate screen for his own crimes?

**76\. Sick**

Lestrade felt like he was coming down with what his old gran used to call one of her "sick headaches." The more clinical term was "Sherlock" or "migraine." Some days the two were indistinguishable.

"Slow down!" he insisted, although he knew the plea was futile.

"We've been too slow from the start!" raged Sherlock, racing down the stairs. " _I've_ been too slow!"

Lestrade shot Donovan a pained look, which she answered with a nod of understanding before he shot off after Sherlock. He caught up at the curb. "We'll take my car."

"No."

"We'll use the siren. It'll be faster."

**77\. Gallant**

“So you’re saying that someone set Farnsworth off, gave him operational support, sent a psychopath on a rampage – as a _diversion_?”

“Yes, do pay attention, Lestrade.” The retort wasn’t one of his best, but Sherlock was distracted. Part of his mind was racing ahead, but another, large part remained focused on John. Brave John, gallant John, _injured_ John, who came so close to a horrible death. Even with Mycroft’s help in tracing John’s phone, they’d almost not been in time.

He wanted to be at the hospital. He needed to be here. “It all comes back to the paper company.”

**78.  Horror**

They drove in silence except for the wailing police siren. Lestrade considered prodding Sherlock to expand on his statement, but something made him hold his tongue. He could handle the verbal abuse that would accompany any explanation, and he knew Sherlock loved showing off, but for now, Lestrade judged it best to save his questions. The look of horror that had flashed across Sherlock's face when they'd found John was etched in his memory. Lestrade still wasn't accustomed to shows of emotion beyond disdain, boredom, or impatience. Right now, Sherlock's demeanour suggested he needed some time to process the incident.

**79\. Desecrate**

Remaining silent didn’t stop Lestrade’s brain from buzzing with questions. What _was_ the connection between Farnsworth and the paper company? Who was the second man? Sherlock knew, obviously, but Lestrade couldn’t think of a candidate. And how did this person _find_ someone willing to brutally murder three (almost four) people? It wasn’t like the telephone directory had entries for mass murderers, people willing to desecrate churches, and the like, however much it felt like it some days.

“Oh hush; you’re thinking too loudly. Did you know Farnsworth has a great-nephew? Leo Ferguson. He’s the CFO of Southron Paper and Fibre.”

**80\. Enemy**

Lestrade bit back an automatic apology and took the next turning. Damned if he was going to apologise for _thinking_ when that was what Sherlock so often snapped at him to do.

"We're after this Ferguson fellow, then? What the hell could he be so desperate to cover up that he'd be willing to hand people over to Farnsworth to be butchered?" The possibilities were myriad, although the connections present in the case narrowed them considerably. Ferguson was proving to be both ruthless and desperate. Lestrade frowned. They were facing an enemy without remorse or conscience. Those were the worst.

**81\. Whisper**

“From what I’ve been able to discover, I believe Ferguson has been using Southron Paper and Fibre’s delivery system and financial structure to conceal his ventures into the narcotics trade. Marijuana, mostly, although I suspect the money-laundering aspect is quite a bit more extensive.”

“Wait – this is a major drugs operation? Sherlock, we’re going to need backup, warrants…”

“All that can come later. Right now, you’re just informing Ferguson that his uncle has been arrested, and asking him down to the Yard for a voluntary interview.” Sherlock’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And keeping me from wringing the bastard’s neck.”

**82\. Run**

Lestrade could see any number of ways Sherlock's plan might go awry, not the least of which was Lestrade failing to stop a homicide. Not that that one wouldn't be deserved.

 Hardly an appropriate thought for an officer of the law, and one he studiously kept to himself.

 "Just let me handle things when we get in there, all right?" Silence from his companion. "Sherlock? Let me run the interview. Understand? The last thing we need is a technicality—say an attempted strangulation by the Yard's consulting detective—that gets the whole thing thrown out of court in the end."

**83\. Storm**

As it turned out, Sherlock’s agreement – or not – with Lestrade’s plan was a moot point.

Lestrade identified himself to Ferguson’s secretary, and merely said that he needed a word; all very standard procedure, no need to storm the castle. The young woman used the phone intercom to announce his presence and ask if Ferguson would see him – again, standard.

What was _not_ standard was the unmistakable sound of a fire escape being lowered.  Sherlock darted forward and burst through the office door, Lestrade at his heels.

Seconds later, they dove for cover as the fleeing Ferguson fired wildly at them.

**84\. Truth**

Ferguson scrambled for the window and the fire escape beyond, still firing wildly. Lestrade drew his own weapon and aimed, only to have Sherlock block his shot as he dove after the fleeing suspect.

Cursing under his breath, Lestrade dashed out and down as Sherlock followed Ferguson directly. Hopefully, Lestrade could cut Ferguson off outside, although truth be told he'd be just as happy if the bastard fell from the fire escape and broke his bloody neck.

He pelted around the building and spotted Ferguson trying to scale a stone wall. "Freeze! Police!"

He didn't expect the order to work.

**85\. Anger**

Shockingly, Ferguson did pause – but only to brace himself against the wall and turn his gun directly at his pursuers. Even as Lestrade tried to find a decent line in order to take a shot, Ferguson fired.

Sherlock flinched and stumbled, a pained grunt escaping his lips. One long-fingered hand flew up to clench his left arm above the elbow. Still, he kept after Ferguson.

Lestrade thought he’d been angry before, but now anger shifted to rage.  He fired two quick shots, careless of accuracy, no longer caring about anything but distracting the bastard from putting another bullet into Sherlock.

**86\. Hero**

The first shot ricocheted off the stone, scattering shrapnel into Ferguson's face. He flinched and stumbled. The next bullet hit home, nailing him in the shoulder. He fell back, his weapon knocked from his grasp.

Lestrade pelted towards him from one direction as Sherlock came from the opposite, still clutching his arm.

Lestrade's aim now was steady, unwavering. "Go for that gun and you're a dead man."

Ferguson glared at him in pained disgust, but made no other move.

"Sherlock? You all right?"

"I'm shot." The "idiot" was unspoken but obvious. 

"Your own fault for trying to play the hero."

**87\. Motionless**

"Don't be absurd." Sherlock's disdain could have been used to cut steel.

"How bad is it?"

"Just a graze."

Lestrade hoped Sherlock was telling the truth. "Can you cuff Mr. Ferguson?"

"If he's not too stupid." Sherlock sauntered forward, deftly extracted Lestrade's handcuffs from his jacket pocket, and approached Ferguson, careful to not get between Lestrade's gun and the motionless man. "You see, Ferguson, I really want Lestrade to blow your brains out. I'm rather hoping you'll give him the excuse. So please, do consider trying to resist me as I handcuff you. You'd be doing the world a favor."

**88.  Wicked**

Ferguson didn't take the offer. Sherlock cuffed him, none too gently judging by the man's pained grunt. "Dear me. Shoulder a bit twingy, is it?" asked Sherlock with false sympathy. For good measure, he gave a sharp tug on the restraints, hard enough to make a point. Ferguson gasped and blood drained from his face.

Lestrade pretended not to notice. With the suspect secure, he stood down and traded his firearm for his phone. "I don't suppose those warrants I mentioned earlier will be a problem to acquire now, do you?"

Sherlock's only reply was a wicked and satisfied smile.

**89\. Wound**

It didn't take long for additional officers to arrive on the scene and take Ferguson away. Normally Lestrade would have accompanied Ferguson to the station, then gotten a jump on the paperwork. Not this time, however; not with Sherlock growing steadily paler beside him, not with John in hospital, status unknown.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's go to A&E and get your wound looked after."

"I told you, it's trivial. Just a graze."

"Maybe so, but you can still have it checked out while we wait for word on John. And you'll be close at hand when he's approved for visitors."

**90\. Touch**

Sherlock relented and climbed into Lestrade's car without comment.

Lestrade considered offering to run the siren again, as a joke of course, but Sherlock's tight expression and tense demeanour warned him off. Still, he pushed the speed limits all the way back.

Sherlock was silent as the ride progressed. He sat without moving, eyes closed as if in thought or sleep. _More likely it's pain management_ , thought Lestrade.

He pulled up and shut off the engine. Sherlock made no move. Worried, Lestrade reached out to rouse him.

Pale eyes flashed open. "Don't touch me."

Lestrade withdrew his hand. "We've arrived."

**91\. Slave**

Getting Sherlock admitted on a priority basis proved easier than Lestrade expected. For one, A&E was fairly quiet. For two, even an organization as much a slave to paperwork as the NHS expedited when the soon-to-be patient was dripping blood.

One look from Sherlock told Lestrade that he'd better not even _think_ about accompanying him into the exam room. Taking the hint, he went instead to the admittance desk.

"Excuse me. I'm looking for information on a patient. John Watson?"

A guarded expression flickered across the woman's face. "Are you family?"

Lestrade produced his warrant card. "Police. And a friend."

**92\. Trust**

The woman wasn't quick to trust. She pursed her lips and reached for his ID. He relinquished it and waited as she examined it. Finally convinced, she handed it back.

"Wait here." She rose and went in search of the attending.

Soon a woman in a white coat arrived and greeted him. "DI Lestrade? I'm Doctor Chatterjee."

Lestrade skipped the pleasantries. "John Watson. How is he?"

"The curare made things tricky, but he'll be fine. Your friend has friends in high places."

"He's not religious." Or was he? Lestrade was suddenly unsure.

"That's not what I meant."

Of course. Mycroft.

**93\. Vicious**

And speak of the Devil… An exquisitely-suited figure emerged from the exam area, a pair of Blackberry-wielding assistants in tow. "Ah, Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft greeted him calmly, as if he'd expected to see him. Knowing him, he probably had. "I see you've resolved the situation with Ferguson. Well done."

 _How the hell…?_ Lestrade didn't finish the thought. It wasn't worth asking. However, thinking of Ferguson reminded Lestrade of Sherlock – and his brother's likely reaction to Sherlock in less than pristine condition. "Mycroft, Sherlock…"

"Judging by the particularly vicious curse with which he greeted me, his damage must be entirely superficial."

**94\. Incapacitate**

"He said as much. I didn't entirely believe him."

"A wise decision where my brother is concerned. This time, however, he's proved quite truthful. It will take more than a maniac's ill-aimed bullet to incapacitate the great Sherlock Holmes." The comment came with Mycroft's most sardonic smile.

"Have you seen John?"

"I have not." His tone implied it was by choice, not directive. "I've no doubt he is receiving excellent care." He nodded once to Chatterjee who returned it, pleased.

"I'll let you both know when he's fit for visitors," she said.

"Better be soon," said Lestrade. "I hear Sherlock."

**95\. Weary**

Indeed, it was hard to ignore the voice exclaiming vociferously against wearing a sling. Mycroft raised one hand to his brow. Lestrade wasn't sure – the expression came and went so quickly – but he thought Mycroft looked weary.

"Sherlock, do humor the man, if you please. If only to please John."

Sherlock ignored the remonstrating physician and focused on Mycroft. His coat hung over his good arm, and his shirtsleeve was cut away, revealing a blood-spotted bandage on his bicep. "John's awake?"

"It's hard to be sure," Chatterjee hedged.

"Nonetheless, if you behave, I'm sure the doctor will allow a visit."

**96\. Pallid**

Lestrade had never seen someone simultaneously pouting, demanding, and obsequious. Leave it to Sherlock to be able to express all three at once.

"Doctor, I'd like to see my friend. Please."

Chatterjee eyed him, Lestrade, and Mycroft, and then came to her own decision. "Come with me. Only you. I won't have the room cluttered with all of you at once."

She ushered him in, waved the attendant nurse out, and said, "I'll be outside." _Reassurance or warning? Both_ , determined Sherlock.

John's eyes were closed. They'd washed away the white make-up, but his face remained pallid and, without eyebrows, incomplete.

**97\. Recumbent**

Sherlock pulled the one visitor's chair close to John's bed. The sling made everything doubly awkward. Finding a tolerable way to sit and hold John's hand (to monitor heartrate and autonomic responses, of course, just in case John wasn't yet able to respond verbally) nearly defeated him, but at last he managed.

"John?" he called softly, once he was settled.

He could feel John's heartbeat thudding regularly, reassuringly, but his friend's recumbent figure remained motionless. There was no change in pulse.

"You'd better look quickly," he continued on. "I'm following doctor's orders. Wearing a sling and everything."

John's eyelids fluttered.

**98\. Giggle (or Ass)**

"You're going to miss it if you don't look now."

Slowly, so slowly, John's eyes opened. He turned his head on the pillow. Such a small movement yet so gratifying that Sherlock had to suppress a manic giggle of relief. 

"I knew that would get your attention," he went on smugly.

John rolled his eyes in reply.

Sherlock grew serious. "We got them both, you know. Farnsworth and his nephew Leo."

John's eyes tracked along Sherlock's damaged arm, questioning.

"Just a graze. Nothing really. I _told_ Lestrade..." He shrugged dismissively and winced.

John snorted an almost-laugh and whispered fondly, "Ass."

**99\. Mitigate (or gaudy)**

“Really, John. Is that the best you can come up with?” Sherlock mocked gently, hoping to provoke another smile. John looked so weak, so small among all the monitoring equipment and other paraphernalia. A gaudy tangle of IVs snaked over his arm, one saline, one blood. Both would mitigate the effects of the drug, but they also stood as a stark reminder of Sherlock’s own failure.

“No.” John’s voice was scarcely audible, but nonetheless drew Sherlock’s attention like a magnet. Understanding, knowing eyes met his own. “Not… your fault.”

Sherlock swallowed, then gave John a determined grin. “Of course not.”

**100\. End (or Poodle)**

Even in his injured state, John could see through Sherlock's façade. Behind the self-assurance and bravado, there was a lost look in his eyes, like someone had kicked his pet poodle or stolen his favourite toy.

Hm. John didn't like his own role in those analogies. He blamed the drugs and exhaustion. He'd been up since 3:10 that morning!

"Time?"

"Late. I should go. Let you sleep." Sherlock didn't stir, hand still in John's despite the obvious evidence that his friend's vitals were strong.

"Stay."

"Awfully long day."

"But… good end… to it."

Sherlock smiled. "Yes. I suppose it is."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written April 22-May 1st, 2012, one 100-word drabble at a time. The last five 'entries' in the table were "Author's Choice," so for those five, the author who'd written the previous drabble suggested a word (or words) to the author writing the next drabble. Yes, yes, see previous notes about our questionable sanity!


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